Shadow Under My Door
by hctiB-notsoB
Summary: Carlton/Shawn WARNING: reference to rape, angsty until the last chapter, and insanity. "Shawn's afraid of the dark, but he's got a good reason, he swears."
1. Shadows

**CLAIMER:** the poem in here is **mine**, and I have copyrights to prove it. Don't make me enforce them please.

**WARNING:** for mentions of rape and...well, insanity, I guess...

* * *

_This shadow under my door,  
__It could be anyone.  
__But fuck, I swear it's you,  
__I swear you're the one._

'You're not real, you're not real, you're not real.'

It's my mantra, and it used to work pretty well. Of course I used to sleep with the TV on, lighting the room in a blue-ish glow. Carlton can't sleep with the TV on though, not even if I mute it. Says it distracts him, it's too bright. So no TV in the bedroom now. No TV means no light, no light means more dark, more dark means more shadows, and shadows mean you.

You're in the shadows, aren't you? I know you're there. I don't know why you hide, but I know you're there. You're waiting for me to be alone in the dark, aren't you? Waiting for me to go get a glass of water, because you know my knowing you know makes my mouth dry, my throat tight. But you also know I'll turn on all the lights as I walk to the kitchen. So you're waiting for Carlton to go to the bathroom then. Waiting for him to leave me alone, and I'll try to hide under the sheets while I wait for Carlton to come protect me again.

Or maybe you're just waiting for me to go mad? You might not have to wait long.

_Your footsteps echo in my skull,  
__Send vibrations down my spine.  
__I wonder how long it will be,  
__Before you get in this time._

It's my fault, that's what you said.

It was a long time ago, but I still remember. It was my fault, because I was smiling too much. My fault, because I laughed too loudly. My fault, because my jeans were too tight, because I flirted too much, because I danced too close. It's my fault, that's what you said. I still haven't figured out if you're right or not.

My own father's a cop, I grew up with a family of cops. So how could I have let something like that happen? I should have noticed the way you watched me, I should have noticed the glint in your eyes. I should have done something. But when you pinned me against the brick wall in some sleazy back alley, I couldn't move. I felt numb, stiff with fear.

I have the training to protect myself, had it even back then. I was capable of defending my body, but I did nothing when you gripped me and told me not to scream. So are you right? Was it my fault?

_You contaminate my soul,  
__Spread poison to my head.  
__You're the skeleton in my closet,  
__The monster in my bed._

No one knows, and that's my fault too.

I wonder, have wondered for years, what would they do? If I told dad, would he be angry? Of course he would be, he always gets angry. But who would he be angry with? Me or you? Would he be upset? Disgraced? If I told Gus, would he cry? Would he feel guilty? Guilty for what, I'm not sure, but Gus always feels guilty when bad things happen to me.

If I told Carlton, what would he do? Would he ever touch me again? Would he feel nasty from all the times he's fucked me? Did my dirt rub off on him? Can he feel it like I can?

I know my thinking isn't very rational, but I also know that's normal for victims. Years of my father reviewing cases with me, taught me a lot on how the victims acted. It's normal for me to be scared, but I don't think that normalcy extends for seven years.

_You're always in my mind,  
__I harbor demons that you've brought.  
__And I don't know why I run,  
__In the end I'm always caught._

My insides turn cold when a hand lands on my hip.

I know the callouses, the rough patch of skin on the palm. My mind knows it's Carlton's hand, but my body says it's someone else's. Someone else who got tired of waiting in the shadows. It's yours.

I resist the urge to jerk away, to run into the bathroom where the light's always so bright. It's not the touch that scares me; I learned quickly to get used to touching again so no one asked questions. It's the dark. It's being touched in the dark. I can't stand it because I can't see who's doing the touching, and my mind drifts back to your touches.

Carlton still can't understand it. He didn't know why I kept having nightmares when we moved in together. I didn't have the heart (or the courage) to say it was because he touches me in my sleep. To say it was because I felt sick when he wrapped his arms around me at night, even though I know it's a protective gesture. He thinks it's _cute_ that I'm scared of the dark.

I'm still not used to it, but I got better at pretending.

_The tears begin to flow,  
__Sweat rolls down my cheek.  
__My body begins to shake,  
__My limbs feel so weak._

I'm letting you win, that's what a doctor would say.

I read a psychology book once, because I wanted to know how to get better. All it did was say what was wrong with me in the first place. It didn't say how to get better, how to heal. It just told me that the thoughts running through my head were normal. That makes me think that there is no way to get better.

'The victim needs to learn to be in touch with reality. They should realize that what has happened to them is real, and then learn to live without dwelling on the experience.' That's what was on one page. So, apparently, I'm supposed to accept what happened, then forget about it. Embrace it, then ignore it.

I'm sure whoever wrote that book has never been raped.

_This shadow under my door,  
__It could be anyone.  
__But it's you mocking me,  
__Knowing you've already won._


	2. No One Knows

**CLAIMER:** the poem in here is **mine**, and I have copyrights to prove it. Don't make me enforce them please.

**WARNING:** for mentions of rape and...well, insanity, I guess...

* * *

_Something has been taken,  
__From deep inside of me.  
__No one seems to know,  
__What that something used to be._

Everyone thinks I'm such a fearless guy.

No one seems to know how terrified I am (of things beside the dark, and raccoons, and monkeys, and 'roughing it', and the extinction of pineapples). And as she comes up while I'm sitting on Carlton's desk, much to his annoyance, something in the back of my mind screams. I look at her red-rimmed eyes, the lack of make-up on her face, and the way she hugs her jacket to her body tightly, despite it being eighty-seven degrees outside, and I know. She braces herself, and I think of how she has more courage than I did, or _do_.

I wonder if it's you who did this to her, like you did to me. You don't fit her description though, at least, not the way I remember you. She stutters as she speaks, and, understandably, talks to Juliet more than Carlton and I. Her name is Sara, with no 'h.' Sara with no 'h' has a six-year-old daughter, who's father skipped town before she was born, and a semi-steady boyfriend.

I can't look her in the eyes because I'm afraid I'll see someone that used to be me. She calls her semi-steady boyfriend to come pick her up, since she walked here from her job. I can tell from the way she talks to him that he'll be receiving some interesting news tonight.

I glance guiltily at Carlton.

_It's an evil little secret,  
__That I force myself to keep.  
__It haunts my waking moments,  
__And kills me in my sleep._

I think Carlton suspects something.

I'm terrified he's already worked it out; he knows what you did to me. But that's paranoia kicking in, because Carlton can't know. Though he keeps sending curious looks my way; has been since we went out to lunch after Sara with no 'h' came to file her report. Even now, as he pretends to read through case files and I pretend to watch CartoonNetwork, a glance comes my way every minute or two. He looks over, I ignore it, he turns a page, I turn the channel.

He's a cop, a detective, _head_ detective, as he reminds people quite often in that adorably smug voice. He knows the signs to look for, I know that. I know those signs as well; I'm sure that's the only reason no one's found out about you yet. And that's one of the only near-extinct things I've thanked my father for...silently, of course.

But I've never _met_ another 'victim' (and fuck, I hate that word and what you've made me). I know that chances are good that someone I've met has been raped; that about every fifty out of one hundred-thousand people have been raped. I know that it's ten times more likely to happen to women than men. And I know eighty percent of all rape crimes go unreported. (You can thank yahoo for these nasty numbers.) But Sara threw me for one hell of a loop.

I'm praying to a God I stopped believing in that I didn't screw up.

_I go through the motions,  
__Each and every day.  
__Just to lose my mind,  
__When the monsters come to play._

Since we've already had dinner, I distract him in the only other way I know.

Carlton pushes against my body, kissing and walking me backwards to our room. He doesn't seem to mind the shadows creeping about. But I trace my fingers along the walls as we walk, feeling for the light switches. Carlton doesn't even seem to notice my habit, too used to it after almost a year together. I let out a slightly breathless laugh as he kisses my neck, and I turn on the light in our bedroom.

I keep my eyes open the entire time I'm with Carlton. He knows this, has never asked about it though. Like the light switches, he just accepts it as something that I do. He watches me too, every time we have sex. Though I'm sure he doesn't know, I'm grateful. It helps me that much more to keep my mind in the present.

I don't mind Carlton's touches; love them really, because they remind me nothing of you. He grips my hips gently, his fingers trace patterns on my skin, and his lips leave trails of pleasure. You left bruises on my body, scratches from your dirty nails, and your stinking breath whispered my name mockingly. I think the only time I can completely forget you, is when I have Carlton on top of me. I'm sure you hate him from the shadows, and that makes me smile against Carlton's lips.

His finger's had just breached my boxers when I saw a flash above us and heard a pop.

_You have me bent over an edge,  
__Where I'm ready to break.  
__I've become numb to the world,  
__For my sanity's sake._

His fingers become yours.

He barely paid the darkness any mind, but I stare at the ceiling in horror for a moment, not quite understanding where the light went. I feel lightheaded when I come back to reality, touches bringing me from my frantic thoughts. When I feel my boxers being pulled down, I don't know what to do.

I try not to tense, I try not to shake, I try not to scream. But I'm not in bed with Carlton now, I don't know where Carlton has gone. I'm back outside the club I shouldn't have been inside of in the first place; you're pressing me against the cold brick wall. Your fingers stop and I wonder what you have in store for me next. You whisper my name, dragging it through mud, staining it irrevocably.

And Carlton's above me, begging me to tell me what he did, what was wrong. I know I must have tensed, I know I'm shaking, and the blood in my mouth says my lip is all that stopped the screaming. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' Not quite sure why it's all that will come from my mouth, but it seems like the right thing to say. His arms are wrapped around me tight and it makes me feel so nauseous, but he won't let go.

I think I hear you laughing in the shadows.

_I see you in every thought,  
__You're always right here.  
__You've taken me apart,  
__Buried yourself deep in my fear._

Carlton's staring at me when I wake up.

I know with dreaded clarity what comes next, and I wish his staring hadn't woken me up. I can't be mad though. In our brightly lit room, thanks to the midmorning sun, I can see his face so perfectly. The furrow of his brow, his concerned frown, bright blue eyes clear of sleep.

He doesn't need to voice the questions, I can see them shouting in his eyes. Still, I wait for them, not at all sure what I'm doing and needing his voice to guide me. 'What happened to you?' He seems as afraid of the answer, as I am the question. Even as I speak, I keep my face half-buried in the pillows and the sheets covering me to my shoulders. For the most part, Carlton takes it all in stride, nodding and smiling and prodding in all the right pauses. I could see anger trying to hide behind his eyes; deep inside I was terrified it was for me.

'When?' My answer melts away the anger, replaces it with horror, which morphs to despair. He puts his arms back around my torso, coincidentally wrapping me in the sheets still covering me, holding on even as I tense. 'Don't ever keep something like that inside again.' He whispers, and I think he's scared he might break me.

Carlton opened all the curtains, but I think there's still a shadow in the corner.

_I can never be clean,  
__With your hate still inside me.  
__And I'm covered in scars,  
__That no one can see._


	3. Taking It Back

**CLAIMER:** the poem in here is **mine**, and I have copyrights to prove it. Don't make me enforce them please.

**WARNING:** for mentions of rape and...well, insanity, I guess...

* * *

_I see the pity in their eyes,  
__And I think I miss your hate.  
__Time to start the healing,  
__But I'm sure that it's too late._

Carlton hasn't touched me in two weeks.

He says it's because he doesn't want me to associate him with you. I keep trying to explain, I try to tell him that there's no way I could think he was you. That he's so different, it was impossible to. After the episode I pulled before though, I suppose it's difficult for him to believe me. I wouldn't believe me either.

I think he's still hurt that I kept you a secret. I had to beg, but he agreed not to be the one to tell dad and Gus. I know what that means, that means _I_ have to tell them. I'm still not sure why it's such a big deal that I didn't tell people about you, but Carlton says it is. He says it's not healthy to keep things bottled up and hidden away. He doesn't seem to understand that you refuse to be contained. That I see you every day, each night. That, sometimes, every face on the street is yours.

Since I told him, the nightmares have become worse. Like opening an infected wound that had scabbed over, you're the pus. My infection. A somewhat nasty simile, but it works. Carlton says I have to clean the wound, I have to clean you out of me. I think we'll be using alcohol to clean you out, I think it's going to hurt.

Carlton wants me to 'see someone' about you.

_Do they think this will work,  
__Can they suture my soul?  
__Piece me back together,  
__Maybe make me whole?_

He gives me a twenty-four hour warning tonight.

Carlton whispers it in my ear, while waiting for me to fall asleep. It's one of the traditions he's established since he learned about you. Each night, he makes sure to leave the lights on, and only turns them off to sleep himself once he's sure I'm not awake. And each morning he wakes before me and makes sure all the windows are uncovered.

I'm grateful, but Christ, I want him to stop treating me so _gently_. I want things to go back as they were. I want him to touch me, fuck me already ('make love' he says now, not just fuck). I want him to bicker with me, fight with me, get annoyed. Don't be understanding, or sympathetic, or scared for me. Just be Carlton. I just want things to be normal again. I guess that's a lot to ask. I've had over seven years to get used to my nightmare, it's just something I've accepted. He's had two weeks.

We have a dinner date with Gus and my dad tomorrow, he whispers. Normalcy goes out the window and is dragged away by a semi-truck.

_If I could have myself back,  
__I'd forgive all your crimes.  
__If only to live a day,  
__Not locked inside my mind._

Carlton makes me tell them everything, from prelude to epilogue.

I considered waiting until after dinner, but I didn't think that would be a good idea. Bile rode up my throat, and I hadn't even had anything to eat yet. Thus, food...bad.

It comes out in a rush, since I have nothing to hide behind, unlike when I told Carlton. My knee is bouncing nervously, and Carlton's hand feels heavy on my thigh as he stops it, while dad and Gus stare at me from across the table. I try to keep my head up, try to make myself look strong. But for some reason, my eyes won't leave the table and my neck feels too stiff to move. When I hear the scratch of the chair against wood flooring, I glance up to see dad's pale face. He's mad. Gus' eyes start to water. I think I might be psychic.

Carlton gives my hand a tight squeeze before following my dad outside. It takes a few seconds, but their voices start to raise. Gus is still staring at me. He hesitates for a moment, but I think my refusal to meet his eyes cemented some decision. He walks around the table and takes Carlton's previous seat. It looks like he might try to say something at first (and that thought makes me cringe, because it'll be undoubtedly mushy). But instead, he drags my chair closer and practically pulls me into his lap. He always takes advantage of the fact that he's bigger than me.

When the two detectives come back inside, both their eyes are kind of red, but no one says anything. They want me to 'see someone' about you.

_I never even realized,  
__Instead of letting my past be,  
__I was making it a home,  
__Making it apart of me._

I don't like the someone I'm seeing.

Her name's Ms. Smith, I call her Ms. Bitch. She's not married for a reason. We haven't been on the best of terms when I brought this to her attention at our second meeting.

She goes by the book with everything, asks the annoying 'And how does that make you feel?' after every other sentence. I state quite clearly that I'm here against my will, which earns me a discreet glare from over the notepad. When I have to recount my 'experience' I get a little bored. It feels nothing like when I had to tell Carlton, and dad and Gus. I'm not nervous in any way, because I just generally don't care what she thinks. So when I spice it up, just a little, I get another glare. (Ok, so calling you 'Gold Finger' and saying Agent 007 came to my rescue was stretching it a bit.)

'Is this a joke to you?' I roll my eyes. 'Repression is a very dangerous defense mechanism Mr. Spencer.'

I slouch a little lower in my chair as she scribbles on her notepad.

_There's a stranger in my mind,  
__I know you put them there.  
__I don't want to be that person,  
__The empty shell in my mirror._

It's like a dream that never really stops.

I wake up, only to find I'm still asleep. My eyes open to see the shadows still here, still around me. You haven't let me wake in over seven years. How many others are still sleeping because of you? How many are still stuck in their nightmare like me? I can't help thinking, were you looking for something else that night? Something more than just a body to fuck. Did you want to hurt me? Did you want to leave me in this nightmare? Did you know what you would do to me? Does it matter to you?

I smile (surprise surprise, a smile) when Carlton wraps his arms around me. He reminds me that it's our anniversary, as if I hadn't been thinking about it for over a week. He has it all planned out, he says. Dinner and a movie, and sex. Can't forget the sex. It doesn't seem like much, because we do dinner and a movie all the time. Sex has also become a common factor once again, thank God. But I haven't had a single nightmare in twelve days, and I don't feel afraid when Carlton cuddles me in his sleep.

Still I wonder, are you sorry?

_Give me a new voice,  
__Not raw from all the screams.  
__Give me a new life,  
__Not splitting at the seams._


End file.
